


I Don't Need A Glass Slipper to Find You

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: The Glass Slipper [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A very small amount of rutting, Also a small amount of abuse in the form of starvation, Fluff, Have some decency for goodness sake, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peter is Prince Charming, Steter - Freeform, Stiles is Cinderella, The Nemeton is Stiles's Fairy Godmother, Why can't I just write happy things, humans and werewolves coexist, in a garden, it's a beautiful thing, my friends hate me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: This is the story of Cinderella...Except not quite.





	I Don't Need A Glass Slipper to Find You

**Author's Note:**

> Oh goodness! Here I am writing a completely different fic when I should be working on the Don't Tell My Dads series but I just can't help it when the plot bunnies hit, you know? 
> 
> And don't you just look amazing today!! Gosh, you're darn beautiful. You really, really are.
> 
> This one was surprisingly easy to knock out..though that's probably because I started somewhere in the middle of the story. :/ I may or may not write another chapter with some scenes from the beginning. I haven't decided on that yet..It'd be like Cinderella told backwards..Weird.
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy!

_Chime._

The clock tower looming over the garden rang loudly, disturbing the quiet that had settled around the small kingdom of Beacon.

Stiles startled, his lips a mere inch from the prince's, and stepped back, looking up at the clock with desperation and disappointment. Midnight? Already? 

_Chime._

“I have to go,” he said breathlessly, taking another step, but the prince's hand squeezed his—not enough to hold him in place but enough to let Stiles know he disapproved of his hasty retreat.

“So soon?” Prince Peter asked, his earlier charm and confidence melting into confusion. “But—” 

_Chime._

“I'm sorry.” Stiles felt a lump rise in his throat. Everything had been perfect. So, so perfect. And he was happy to have had anything at all, even if it meant leaving this beautiful man standing alone in the most romantic place he'd ever been in his life. “I have to...”

He stepped away again towards the entrance of the garden, and the prince followed him, step for step. 

_Chime._

“Will you come again tomorrow?” Peter pleaded, eyes shining in the faerie lights strung through the trees. Leaves shivered against the branches as a cool breeze picked up, tussling the prince's hair and making him look just that more enticing. 

_Chime._

Stiles bit his lip. “I don't know,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost amongst the chirp of crickets. He reached the garden entrance and turned to leave, but insistent fingers wrapped around his wrist, and he turned back just barely. 

“Please.”

_Chime._

“Please come back to me, beautiful boy.”

Stiles's heart stuttered at the words, and he drew in a sharp breath, closing his eyes. 

_Chime._

“I'll try,” he half-promised. He wasn't sure if the Nemeton's power was a one-time-only occurrence. He hoped it wasn't. Because he _would_ try. He would try to return to this brilliant, amazing, gorgeous man. 

_Chime._

Stiles slipped from Peter's grasp, fingers grazing the older man's palm and sending a shiver up his spine as he ran. 

As he ran and ran and ran. 

_Chime._

Through the outer-gardens and past the royal guard. Down the steps of the palace, through the courtyard, and out the enormous front gates.

_Chime._

He felt his breath catch as the thudding of his boots became the flats of his bare feet pounding against the dirt road. His clothes, elegant and well-threaded, fell loose and tattered and cinder-smeared around his thin frame. 

_Chime._

He slowed as he felt the spell leave him, heaving large gulps of air and blinking away the haziness in his vision. He shivered before he felt the first few drops of rain, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to let the water wash away the tears he'd tried so hard to keep at bay. 

_Chime._

There was a pull in his chest, and he followed it, wandering off the road and into the woods, where he walked for what felt like hours. When he came upon the large oak that emitted so much power and energy, he fell at its roots, looking up into its branches in awe. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for this night. For allowing me to be happy, if only for a few hours.”

The Nemeton thrummed, and Stiles yawned, curling against its warm bark. He fell asleep to the sounds of the woods and the feeling of safety. 

And when he woke, the first tendrils of light were just starting to peek through the trees. He stood and stretched, placing a hand on the oak's trunk and smiling softly before making his way back to what had once been his family's home. He had just enough time to make breakfast for his step-father and step-brothers before they woke. 

They probably hadn't even noticed he was gone. 

0 o 0 o 0

“You're here.”

Stiles smiled and turned on the stone bench he sat on, watching Peter enter the garden with relief written across his face. 

“I'm here,” he confirmed with a small nod as the Prince sat beside him. 

“When I didn't see you inside, I figured...”

Stiles sighed and reached a hand forward, stroking the side of Peter's face. “I'm sorry to have worried you, Your Highness.”

Peter closed his eyes and turned into the touch. “Please don't call me that.”

The younger man traced the Prince's brow bone, the length of his nose, his lips. “What would you have me call you?”

Peter opened his mouth and breathed hotly on the fingers. “Peter, of course,” he said, smiling at the amusement that shone in the other's honey eyes. “And what would you have me call you?”

“You can call me whatever you like,” Stiles teased, watching as the man leaned forward. 

“Your Highness,” someone called just before their lips met, and Peter huffed in annoyance as he turned to find the head of the royal guard standing in the garden's entrance, looking official and about as apologetic as one with his stoic countenance could be. “The Queen requests your presence.”

Talia Hale. The Queen. And Alpha of their kingdom.

“I'm detained at the moment,” Peter growled, but his shoulders hunched like the refusal physically hurt to say. 

The guard, Argent, did little more than purse his lips at the statement before saying,“Your Highness, it would be wise—” 

_Chime._

Stiles flinched and stood abruptly, Peter's gaze flying to him immediately. “It's fine, P-...Your Highness. Your sister needs you.” He glanced nervously at the clock tower as it chimed again. “And I have to go.”

Peter stood and centered a disapproving look on the younger man. “Why do I only ever get a few moments with you?”

Stiles smiled softly and started towards the garden entrance as another chime echoed around them. “Pining makes the heart grow fonder.”

The Prince followed him, just like the night before, smirking as he said, “I don't think that's how the saying goes.”

Stiles shrugged as he passed the guard, who was watching him intently. “Doesn't make it any less true.”

Peter caught him just past the garden entrance, tugging his hand so that the young man was pulled against him, chest to chest. “Tell me,” he said, feeling Stiles's breath ghost across his face in warm puffs. “Tell me the name of the man I'll be pining for.”

Stiles reached up, fingers gently stringing through the hairs at the base of Peter's neck. Peter didn't hesitate, meeting the young man's lips in a heated kiss that lasted seconds, lifetimes, forever. And still wasn't long enough when they pulled apart. 

Another chime from the clock tower had the younger man wincing, and he looked into Peter's eyes before whispering, “Stiles. My name is Stiles.”

And then he was pulling from Peter's arms, running and running and running, the chimes of the clock tower at his heels. The Prince had to resist the urge to follow, to chase, to claim. 

Argent silently stepped up beside him. “Do you wish me to go after him for you, Your Highness?”

Peter released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and shook his head. “No.” And with a smile he said, “He'll be back.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles found himself at the Nemeton again, thanking it for its generosity and its understanding and hoping hoping _hoping_ that one more night would be acceptable. He slept, as he had the night before, waking refreshed and smiling and happy to bursting. There was a small basket of berries beside him, which was the perfect excuse for when he returned home and his step-father was waiting with a frown and crossed arms, demanding to know where he'd been. 

And if his step-father glared at him a little more fiercely during the day, Stiles hardly noticed, too busy day dreaming about the Prince's lips and unknowingly humming a song he'd heard at the ball.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles moaned as Peter pressed him against a tree, sucking marks onto his neck, fitting his leg between the younger man's and grinding with abandon. Stiles guessed they were foregoing royal formality tonight. He didn't mind..much. It was the last night he would see the prince. May as well give him something to remember him by.

“Stiles,” Peter groaned, and Stiles answered with a throaty noise of his own. His name on those lips; he could lose himself in that wrecked tone. “Marry me.”

Stiles's eyes flew open, and he stopped moving, making Peter lean back enough to watch him carefully. “What?” the young man asked, the word sounding like it had been punched from his gut. 

Peter smirked, but Stiles could see the nervousness in the gesture. “That's what this whole event has been about, right? Finding someone for me to marry. My sister isn't simple, Stiles. She's noticed my absence from the ball these past few nights.”

Shit. 

Stiles had been keeping the Prince from finding the one he was supposed to marry. He'd been selfish. He just wanted to see, wanted to immerse himself in what everyone in town said were glorious parties. He just wanted to be happy for a little while. He hadn't meant to...

_Chime._

Stiles's head snapped to the clock tower, his lips pressing together as he lamented how little time he was able to spend with this man every night. “No,” he mumbled to himself, wishing he could stop the clock, stop time, stop everything and just...stay. 

“No?” the Prince asked hesitantly, the hope that had been swimming in his eyes drifting to uncertainty. 

_Chime._

Stiles sucked in a breath and turned his attention back to Peter. “No, I..I mean...” He fumbled for the words, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he felt the power of the Nemeton leaving him little by little. “I have to go.”

“Stiles—” 

_Chime._

Stiles whimpered and slipped out from between the tree and Peter. “You don't even know me.” He hadn't meant for the words to sound accusing. They were an excuse, a chance for Peter to realize what he was doing, to realize that Stiles was a mistake.

_Chime._

“I want to,” Peter proclaimed boldly, stepping towards him and placing his hands on Stiles's shoulders. “I want to know everything about you. I want to know every _inch_ of you.” His eyes flashed a bright blue, and Stiles, to his credit, didn't twitch a muscle. “I want you. All of you. I don't care who you are. I just know that from the moment I met you, you've felt... _right_ to me.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And if you have to go—” Stiles closed his eyes at the words, looking pained. “—I just want you to grant me a chance to find you.”

Stiles's eyes flew open as Peter was reaching into his pocket, and he watched as the Prince produced a beautifully crafted compass, intricate designs swirling along the edges. It looked old but well taken care of, and Stiles swallowed as Peter pressed it into his hand. 

“It was my father's,” Peter explained, ignoring Stiles's protests that he couldn't take something so valuable. “I'll take it back when I find you.” He pressed their foreheads together and made a low whining noise. “Please let me find you, beautiful boy.”

Stiles's chimes were almost up. Peter could search all he wanted, he would never find the younger man, and the thought made tears slide down his cheeks as he gave the man one last kiss. Because the Prince didn't— _couldn't_ —want who he really was. He clutched the compass to his chest in a silent answer as he backed away, looking his last at the man who had captured his heart so fully. 

And then he turned and ran. He ran past Argent, who was waiting just outside the garden and who let him go despite the clear anguish on his face. He ran down the steps he would never set foot on again. He ran past the gate that shown brightly even in the night. He ran, his eyes filled with tears, until he felt the safety of the Nemeton surround him, felt its comforting bark beneath his fingers. He cried until he fell asleep, praying that morning would take his memories and that he would never again remember the way the Prince had touched him so wonderfully. 

0 o 0 o 0

By the time Stiles wandered home, a basket of eggs and an assortment of berries clutched in his shaking fingers, the decree had already been made. 

Prince Peter would be searching the homes and buildings in all of Beacon Kingdom to find the young man he'd fallen in love with. To find his destined mate. 

Stiles's heart stuttered at the words, and he nearly dropped the basket when his step-brothers began yelling for breakfast. His step-father's careful glare was on him again, and he scurried into the kitchen, cooking as fast as he possibly could. 

They lived just on the outskirts of the kingdom. It would take days for the royal guard to reach them. He still had time. He could hide. He could run away. 

But...

He didn't want to. Peter had promised to find him. Had said he didn't care who he was. The ball, after all, had been open to the public. Anyone eligible for marriage was welcome. So maybe Peter really didn't care. Maybe he had a shot with the man. Maybe they could be happy together.

He dropped the bowl of eggs he had stopped whisking while his mind had wandered as a pair of strong hands grabbed at him. He yelped and fought, but he was no match for the strength of who had him. He was dragged outside, and as he caught sight of the cellar, he began to panic. It was dark and dank and musty down there. There was barely enough room to move.

“No! Please! I won't—” 

“No,” the voice of his step-father said angrily as the cellar doors were opened and Stiles was shoved inside. “You won't.” He had barely a moment to look up into the contorted face and glowing eyes of the older man before the doors were slammed closed and a heavy lock was closed around the cellar door's handles with an utter finality. 

Stiles stood—or tried; he had to hunch his shoulders in order to stand—and began to dust himself off. As he patted his pockets, he frowned, checking the pocket he thought he'd put the compass in first before frantically checking all the others. All empty. He searched the ground around him in the limited light, but there was nothing. 

He dropped to his knees as sobs began to wrack his body. How would his Prince find him now?

0 o 0 o 0

Peter became increasingly frustrated as the days dragged by. It was day six of their hunt, and he could see Talia's patience beginning to wane. He probably had one, two days at most, to find this young man he'd fallen for before she demanded he choose someone else. They'd searched nearly all the homes in the inner kingdom. All that was left were the few near the kingdom's edge. And if Stiles wasn't there, he almost certainly had fled the kingdom entirely. 

The thought made Peter's stomach turn. Stiles wouldn't leave without giving him a chance to find him, would he?

“We'll find him,” Argent said from his horse beside him, as if reading his thoughts. They'd been friends for a very long time, and Peter trusted the man with his life.

His love life as well, apparently. 

“How are you so sure?” Peter asked quietly, gripping the reigns of his own horse tightly. 

Argent smiled with a fondness that he rarely showed anyone but the Prince. “Because I saw that young man's face when he was with you.” He waited until Peter was looking at him again. “And I saw his face when he had to leave. He wants you to find him.”

Peter sighed and looked ahead of them again. They were coming up on another house. This one felt...different than the others. He had a feeling they would find something here. If not Stiles, then at least an answer to where he might be. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles heard the horses but was barely able to lift his head. He'd been surviving on a glass of water and a small piece of bread a day since the decree. He was so very tired. But he did his best to sit up, to move towards the cellar doors, to listen to what was happening. 

He could hear his step-father welcoming the royal guard, introducing his sons. There was a deeper voice that spoke of the decree. It sounded like the head guard, Argent. And then there was another voice that made Stiles's heart skip a beat. 

“Are you sure there aren't any others in your home?”

“Peter,” Stiles whispered, his voice hoarse.

“No,” his step-father lied. “None but my sons and me. We have no servants here, we tend to the house ourselves.”

“And has anyone passed through here within the week?” Argent asked loudly, his tone conveying suspicion.

His step-father hesitated. “There was...a young man. He spent the night, pawned a small object for some travel money. He said he was headed out of the kingdom.” Stiles heard his step-father rustle into his pocket, heard a sharp breath from Peter, and he immediately knew where his compass had gone. “I'm sorry. If I had known it was royal property, I never would have taken it.”

Tears leaked from Stiles's eyes. What must Peter think of him now? 

“Thank you for the information,” Peter said, his voice low and resigned. It sounded so wrong, and Stiles cried harder, trying and failing to get up, to bang on the cellar doors, to make any kind of noise they might hear. “I will make sure you are fairly compensated for your cooperation and for returning this.”

The sound of them mounting their horses had Stiles's heartbeat quickening. Surely Peter could hear it? Surely Peter could smell that he was nearby? Surely he could tell that his step-father was lying?

But his step-father was of their kind. He would know all the tricks, how to keep Peter and Argent in the dark just long enough for them to leave. The returned compass had been the final piece. Peter would be so wound in grief that he might not notice that Stiles was crying his name over and over and over...

0 o 0 o 0

Peter felt a tug on his chest as they started down the road back to the palace. Something was wrong. 

“I don't like it,” Argent murmured, brows furrowed in thought. “Something was off about that man.”

Peter took a deep breath and looked back the way they'd come, frowning at the house as it started to leave sight behind the surrounding trees. “I...”

“Peter?” Argent asked, and the Prince met his eyes. “You feel something, too?”

Peter nodded, and, suddenly, they were turning back. The owner of the home came barreling out the front door, a look of panic quickly hidden by a smooth smile and a look of surprise. “You needed something else, Your Grace?”

“Search the house,” Argent barked, and several men went inside. Peter dismounted and stood outside with Argent while the sounds of doors opening and calls of “Clear!” rang throughout the house. But something else was tugging on him again. And it wasn't inside.

He cocked his head, following a low, quiet noise around the house, Argent at his back, until they came to a pair of locked cellar doors. Peter leaned down, closing his eyes and listening intently until the quiet noise became a name. Over and over and over... 

“Peter...Peter...Peter...”

He had the lock broken and the doors thrown wide before another second passed. The sight inside made his stomach clench, his heart fall, his blood boil. 

0 o 0 o 0

The cellar doors flew open, and Stiles hunched in on himself, shielding his eyes against the light. 

So. His step-father had come to let him out. Or kill him. Not that it mattered. Peter was long gone by now, and he probably didn't care whether he found Stiles anymore. 

Footsteps on the cellar stairs made Stiles begin to tremble, closing his eyes tight and accepting his fate. If Peter had only known how much he wanted him...If Stiles had only accepted his proposal the night before...If...If...If...

“Stiles?”

The young man gasped and squinted into the light, desperately seeking out the source of the voice. Peter's voice. Peter's beautiful, sultry, gorgeous voice. And when Peter leaned down in front of him, hands hovering but not touching, Stiles began to cry. 

“You...” Stiles sucked in a tight breath and smiled, wide and watery. “Peter, you found me.”

Peter's arms came around him immediately, his face pressed into the crook of his neck as he inhaled deeply. “I'll always find you, beautiful boy.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles's step-father was dealt with. And that was about as specific as Stiles wanted either Peter or Argent to be about that. It took a while for the young man to fully recover, but when he did, he and Peter talked. It started with uncertainty and an enormous amount of self-doubt (on Stiles's part) but ended in happy tears and another marriage proposal. 

Which Stiles accepted with more than enough enthusiasm. 

Peter learned new things about Stiles everyday. Stiles liked long walks through the garden and spending hours in the library and talking until his tongue was sufficiently otherwise preoccupied. 

Stiles learned that Peter was quiet and intelligent and liked to tear clothing like it grew on trees. 

On their wedding day, Peter smiled more than he had in his entire life. And he didn't care. Because Stiles was gorgeous and smelled happy and only had eyes for him.

And later in their bed, when Stiles was just on the cusp of sleep and whispered “I love you” against his bare chest, Peter breathed in the scent of them together, sighing, “And I love you, beautiful boy.”


End file.
